To Lose a Sword
by Jarrtail
Summary: Non- humor "Mossflower" parody. If Rose lived, returned to Noonvale and married Martin...who would save Mossflower?
1. Act 1: Chapter 1

**I do not own Redwall or any locations or characters from the aforementioned book series. However, all original characters in this fic are the property of me. The first paragraph of this chapter is quoted from the book Martin the Warrior. I do not own that either. I also do not own the Terry Pratchett quote. **

**Hey, look, I've posted something again! For the first time in over 8 months! Yeah, I was in a bit of a rut there. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter of this up sooner. But don't bet on it.**

**Anyway, I thought of this after reading Kelaiah's Redwall Fanmail fic and the question that I submitted to Rose was: ****If she had survived and possibly married Martin, would you have allowed him to go South and ultimately defeat Tsarmina, would you make him stay with you, or would you have gone with him? The answer was, assuming that Martin heard about the crisis in Mossflower somehow, that she would go with him. However, it was mentioned that **_**Martin wouldn't have gone south in the first place. T**_**hat got me thinking: I've seen several fics the all explore the subject "What if Rose lived?" but very few of them address what actually happens to the poor woodlanders stuck with Tsarmina when Martin stays in Noonvale with Rose, they marry, etc. How would the resistance fare without the noble mouse warrior.**

**Thus, this fic was born. In essence, it is _Mossflower_ Without Martin. Of course, I couldn't just start it there without some kind of explanation, so…**

"_It began, as many things do, with a death." –Terry Pratchett_

Or in this case, the absence of one.

Location: Fortress Marshank, at the end of the end of the final attack

Badrang swung his sword. It caught the side of the ladle, sweeping Grumm away as his own ladle was smashed against the side of his head. A mousemaid threw herself on him, battering at his face with a pebble loaded in her sling. Once, twice, thrice she struck. Taken aback by the ferocity of the attack, Badrang tasted blood from a mouthwound. The loaded sling caught him hard in his left eye. Snarling with pain and rage, he grabbed the mousemaid…

_It watched the battle intently, waiting for the moment. Its was an important job, and it was judged harshly by its superiors. It could not afford to fail this time. As the stoat lifted the mouse into the air, it readied the metaphorical scissors... _

_There was a nudge, a great many minds that _willed _so strongly that the being momentarily lost concentration._

Badrang hesitated for a moment, cocking his head as though he had heard something. He shrugged. It must have been nothing. Now to put paid to this blasted mousemaid…

The stoat's eyes rolled back and he toppled onto Rose. Before she could panic, however, the corpse was shoved aside by a strong-looking young mouse. The mouse walked over the sword Badrang had been holding, and with an air of finality picked it up and stabbed it into the ground. Then he looked over to the shrew dagger imbedded in the stoat's back.

_And the moment was lost. The being did not notice this, however, and waited…and waited._

"I would have liked to have killed him with my father's sword," he said at length. "But it all comes to the same in the end. "

"So what are you going to do now?"asked Rose.

"I'm leaving my sword here, as a reminder. I don't need it anymore; I'm a creature of peace now. My mission to kill Badrang is finally complete, and I can live out my days in peace."

The mousemaid's paw enveloped his, "I think I can help you with that, Martin the ex-warrior."

Laughing, the two began walking paw in paw to Noonvale, where they would remain for the rest of their lives.

_It was slightly puzzled. It had not been created to be imaginative, but it had the nagging feeling that something was dreadfully _wrong. _Still, everything seemed to have worked out alright, and the being felt no need to remain at this location any longer. _

And far away, in a house situated in a leaning tree, an old molewife wept for the future.

To Lose a Sword

Act 1: Winter

Chapter 1

Location: Southeast Mossflower, approximately four seasons since the death of Lord Verdauga Greeneyes.

It was another hard winter. Ever since the mass abandonment of the settlement and the subsequent recapture of many of the escapees, taxes had risen so high that the creatures living in the miserable shacks hardly got a few bites of what they farmed. Rumor had it the Tsarmina had brought in more reinforcements that needed the food, but the truth was that the soldiers had been looking quite well-fed lately. And in the manner of somebeast who has something good and does not want to see it leave, they were punishing those who did not tribute more and more harshly. There had been three executions this season already.

One shack was situated a little ways away from the rest, and seemed a bit newer than the others. Inside this hovel a weasel and a ferret sat around a small fire, contemplating their immediate future. It wasn't very uplifting talk.

"Well, that's it. That piece a'bread was our last food. It's either starve 'r steal now," said the weasel. He was quite old, and scars crisscrossed the fur that was not covered by a heavy coat obviously made for somebeast smaller.

The ferret, who was much younger and wore an obviously valuable cloak, swallowed guiltily before answering, "We're halfway to both of them now. Do you think that Kotir would let us back in if we promised good behavior? Or we could let them capture us. Even the cells would be an improvement over this."

"Don't even talk abou th' cells. They ain't th' nice cool spot they used t'be, not after that new stoat came in. And they ain't lettin' us back in th' army. Not after yeh called Tsarmina an 'illegitimate usurper who couldn't command a dead mouse, let alone an army.' I thought yeh were supposed to be a strategist, _Captain _Gregory. Ain't they usually smart enough t' be a bit more tactfulthan that?"

"It had been a bad day. And I definitely paid for that," the ferret indicated with a paw the four ugly scars and one eyepatch on the left side of his face. "Besides, killing a captain didn't exactly endear you to her either."

"Yeah, but I 'ad a _reason_ fer that. Sure as 'Gates I wasn't gonna let 'im-"

They were interrupted by a banging on the door and a gruff voice.

"Official Kotir patrol! Open up!"

The weasel put a claw to his lips, and took the large scimitar that leaned against the shack's wall in his left paw and moved into position so that when the door was open he would be within arm's reach of the knocker. Then he nodded. Gregory opened the portal and revealed the skinny figure of a stoat in Thousand Eyes armor with official spear relaxing in his paw. He opened his mouth to say something when the weasel's paw grabbed him around the neck and dragged him into the hut. Wincing, the old beast dropped the brown-furred soldier to the ground, but placed a footpaw on his chest and tickled the end of the scimitar against his throat.

"Now, now there little stoat. Yeh ain't gonna go painfully. Looks like 'er majesty needs a little remindin' that old soldiers in good standin' are exempt from all taxes and levies, eh Greg?"

The ferret subjected the prone stoat to a long stare before saying, "Greenfang, you really shouldn't do that. You got away with it last time because Tsarmina was too busy trying to round up the woodlanders to bother with one death from a belligerent old beast. Now, with the garrison with nothing else to do but rest on their laurels she'd leap at the chance to make an example of you."

He prodded the soldier with his footpaw, "Besides, you're not really a stoat, are you?"

"Yes!" the beast exclaimed. "I'm not a soldier either! I'm a member of the resistance!"

Greenfang released him, but held the scimitar in such a way as to indicate that even though the beast was _technically _free he shouldn't try anything funny, like trying to escape.

"Resistance, eh? Why th' 'ölle should I care either way? It's because of the bloody resistance my bloody arm and leg are messed up. And you can't weasel out of this that easily in any case. I can verdammt well see that you are a stoat. I'm old, not blind."

"We don't need two armies trying to kill us, Greenfang…" warned Gregory, "And take a good look before you call him a liar. What stoat has brown fur in the winter?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you!" said the apparent stoat, struggling upright. "See, the color's rubbing off."

He held up his arms, were the dampness of the snow had washed off the brown to reveal gray fur underneath.

"Well I'll be roasted over a slow fire an' fed t' th' Gloomer. Wot are yeh, then?" asked Greenfang, whose grip was still on his sword.

"I'm the Skipper of Otters in Mossflower. Well, technically I'm the Skipper's brother, but he's missing and presumed dead which leaves me in charge as long as I don't actually tell the crew what to do. They look down a bit on a chief who prefers spying to fishing and swimming and whatever else they do. You can call me Mask."

The old weasel shrugged at Gregory, who said, "I've heard of you. Weren't you the one who busted Gingivere out of the dungeons?"

"Aye," said Mask, with a trace of professional pride.

"Shame 'bout th' guards," said Greenfang.

"He's doing quite well now, actually. Getting around with only a slight limp."

Greenfang leaned on his scimitar and treated the otter to a half-suspicious, one-quarter amused and one-quarter annoyed glare, "That's all well an' good, but wot I want t' know is why th' Resistance is goin' door t' door dressed as soldiers. Did yeh all take second jobs er somethin'?"

"Heh, no. It's getting really bad for the resistance, you see. We've lost a lot of beasts recently, so I've been assigned to scour the settlement for anybeast who would like to join us. Problem is, there are so many patrols around that a woodlander going from house to house would look a bit suspicious, so I dress up like a soldier to ally suspicion. No one thinks anything of an extra soldier here and there."

Gregory was somewhat impressed by this tactical thinking. The previous woodlander attacks on Kotir had been little more than mobs. It was nice to see some actual brainwork going on.

"Well, I suppose you'll be going then?" asked the ferret.

"Not yet. You haven't introduced yourselves yet."

The old weasel saluted crisply, "Sergeant Greenfang of Kotir, currently retired."

Mask raised an eyebrow, "Retired?"

"Well…honorably discharged, at least."

"Honorably?"

Greenfang sighed, "Just discharged, then."

"Really?"

The weasel threw his paws up in the air, "Fine, they were going to execute me and I deserted. Happy?"

The otter grinned slightly and motioned to the ferret, "And you?"

"Gregory, _former _Chief Strategist of the Thousand Eyes army. Not ashamed to admit that I was thrown out," he added with a glance at the weasel, who ignored the jibe.

Mask looked thoughtful for a moment, and then opened the hovel's door and walked out. Before he had gone two steps, however, the otter turned around and spoke to the pair of vermin.

"You know, we could really use beasts with your talents in the resistance. If you would like to join us, I'm sure that you would find it to your bene-"

Greenfang slammed the door shut and limped back to the fire.

"Wot did yeh think of that, Greg? Th' nerve of that dummkopf. Th' resistance? I got more pride than that."

The ferret shrugged, "I don't know, it seems like the best deal we're going to get. You were the one who said we were going to starve, and you've certainly heard the rumors about all the food the woodlanders have."

"Yer right, but…th' resistance? Tsarmina's a right 'ündin, but I've never outright betrayed any army I've served in before. I 'ave _some _honor."

Gregory hugged his coat closer to his body against the freezing wind that blew through the holes in the shack's wall, "Honor? Really? Greenfang, after I was kicked out of Kotir you spent a week teaching me to forget about honor. You just don't want to join the woodlanders because you're embarrassed. You spent most of your Kotir career killing them and now you have to ask for handouts."

The old weasel sighed, and leaned against the most solid wall, "Eh, yer right. But think about it. Even if Masky otter was serious, there's still th' fact that 'e ain't th' entire resistance command. They might not be so inclined t'go along with this, wot with th' fact that we've been killin' 'em fer th' past who-knows-'ow-many seasons. If we're lucky they'll just sling us back out in th' snow, or they might just 'ang us up fer target practice."

"They're _woodlanders_. They practically have their entire lives based on honor. It's one of their more annoying qualities."

"That and th' fact that they could foil yer brilliant plans 'alf th' time even though they were outnumbered, untrained and 'ad no real strategy?"

"_Yes._"

Greenfang grinned*, "Never fails. Yeh sure yeh want t' throw in our lot with th' woodlanders, after they've kicked yer tail fer so long?"

"That's not going to work, you know. I'm not that stupid."

"Eh, it was worth a shot. Did yeh 'appen t' catch 'im sayin' 'ow we could go about _findin' _th' resistance headquarters?"

"No, you _slammed the door in his face _before he could mention that. I figure we could just lurk around the settlement a bit and see if we notice a soldier going from door to door and not coming out with any food. Then we -that is, you- grab him and see if he changes color after we pour a bucket of water over him."

"And if 'e's not th' otter?"

"Then I suppose you can rough him up a bit before we throw him back. We'll be leaving, after all, and if this doesn't work out I say the, what is that word from your old country… the hölle with this, we're getting out of Mossflower. If we're quick enough we can make it past the border patrols."

Greenfang rubbed his paws together and held them in front of the fire, "Okay, that plan works. One question, though."

"What?"

"Everybeast knows that th' woodlander 'ideout is in th' woods east of 'ere. Wouldn't it make more sense to just 'ead in that direction an' explain things to th' woodlanders that'll pick us up as soon as we enter their territory? Instead of, yeh know, sulkin' round Kotir-controlled territory jumpin' random soldiers? "

Gregory glared at the old weasel while he thought up a suitable rebuttal, "…because the resistance might shoot first and ask questions later, that's why."

"But we're not wearin' armor an' yeh yerself said that th' woodlanders are really big on honor. They wouldn't shoot us 'less we attacked 'em first."

"Okay, fine. We'll go with that."

"Chief Strategist, eh?"

"Shut up."

*A frightening sight. Greenfang thought that "oral hygiene" had something to do with not swearing, and practiced neither definition. It was easy to see how he got his name.


	2. Act 1: Chapter 2

**Hey, look at that! I updated! In less than a month! Don't count on it happening again, though, now that school's started. Anyway, I don't like this chapter much but I needed to get Greenfang and Gregory from point A to point B, and this is what came out. I'm really not happy with the ending especially, but everything after it chronologically goes in the next chapter, plus I felt it had dragged on enough already. So review and tell me what you think, even if it's that this chapter sucks, which is pretty much what I expect. Oh, and for those of you who were wondering and didn't figure this out already, the language Greenfang keeps swearing in and occasionally lapsing into is German.**

**-Jarrtail**

To Lose a Sword

Act 1: Winter

Chapter 2

Location: Southeast Mossflower, roughly one hour after sunset.

"Hey Greenfang, I think I found the flaw in your plan," said Gregory.

"Oh? Wot?" replied the old weasel.

"It means that we have to hike through Mossflower at night in the middle of the winter."

Greenfang laughed, "Ha! 'Least _some _of us 'ave nice expensive cloaks. Us _commoners_ 'ave t'make do with a coat they took off one o' their dead mates."

"Shut up, Greenfang."

"Of course, yeh can never really get th' stains out," the weasel continued. "Not t' mention th' 'oles."

Gregory sighed. He had stayed awake most of the previous night and for all of the day trying to figure out how to make a good impression on the woodlanders, and now he was hungry, tired, and still didn't have any idea what to do once- if, he corrected himself, the resistance picked them up. Greenfang wasn't helping. As far as the ferret could tell, the weasel's approach to life was to do what seemed like a good idea at the time and worry about the consequences later. Gregory hated this, and the fact that the weasel was much older than him and still had both his eyes didn't help.

"Alright, this is th' edge of Kotir terri'try. We're in th' resistance's land now," said Greenfang abruptly.

"How can you be sure?" asked the ferret, who was getting rather annoyed.

"Think of this as an opportunity t'learn somethin' after livin' in a castle fer most of yer life. See, yeh remember all those Thousand Eyes banners we kept seein'? Well, they ain't around anymore. Another thing, yeh see those tree stumps? We 'aven't been seein' any stumps fer a while now 'cause beasts cut down th' trees that're near 'em first, an' th' soldiers an' 'ut-beasts ain't cut down all th' trees near Kotir yet. But these trees're cut down right 'ere, which means that there must be a fairly large amount of beasts nearby. But wot really clinched it was th' squirrel in that tree over there."

Gregory turned around quickly as the beast stepped jumped down out of the tree and pointed a bow at them. The weasel grinned.

"Alright, you two, throw down your weapons!" shouted the squirrel. A long knife fell to the snow at Gregory's feet, and Greenfang produced and dropped two daggers from somewhere on his person in addition to his scimitar.

"'old on a minute there, friend. Don't get all 'asty 'an march us off t' a cell somewhere. We're 'ere 'bout a job offer, from somebeast named Mask. I think 'e's an otter, but I'm not quite sure," said the old weasel as the squirrel collected their blades. The resistance fighter stopped suddenly.

"You know Mask?" he asked in surprise.

Gregory recovered enough from the initial shock of having a weapon aimed at him before Greenfang could say something undiplomatic, "He came to our house yesterday disguised as a soldier. We explained to him that we are _in no way loyal _to the Thousand Eyes army," the ferret looked pointedly at his companion when saying this. "And he said that there might be a place for beasts with our talents in the resistance."

The squirrel looked at both vermin suspiciously. Gregory had to admit, they didn't look too trustworthy. His nicely decorated cloak combined with the eye patch and scarring made him look like some kind of pirate, or the better class of horde captain. On the other paw, Greenfang's many wounds and multitude of weaponry didn't exactly lend themselves to the image of a peaceful beast either.

"Ah, if Mask talked to you then you're probably safe," the squirrel decided at length. "But just in case I'm taking you to Brockhall to see what they say. We can always kill you later."

The old weasel laughed along with the squirrel, "Heh, good one there. Say, yeh got a name?"

"Er, Beech," he said, somewhat bemused. He was obviously not used to being addressed in a friendly manner by vermin.

"Beech. Very squirrely name. Say, yeh often get put on guard duty, Beech?"

"…Yes. Almost every day really."

"Well, yeh stink at it," said Greenfang flatly. "Look, yeh ain't even wearin' camouflage. It's th' middle of th' winter an' yer all decked out in green. Th' red fur doesn't 'elp anythin' either. It doesn't matter if it's at night, beasts 'ave lanterns an' night vision. An' fer th' love of Gott, if yer outnumbered don't reveal yerself. Yeh 'ave t'stay up in th' trees, fire off an arrow or two t'get their attention, and don't come down. When yer pointin' a bow at two beasts, everybeast knows that yeh kin only 'it one of 'em at a time, an' they figure they've got a pretty good chance of it not bein' them."

Gregory sighed again. Back at Kotir, Greenfang had been the best sergeant anybeast had ever seen, but coupled with that was a sort of obsession with perfection. From everybeast. The old weasel used to lecture capture prisoners on diversion tactics and why it is a truly horrible idea to split your forces into small groups whenever you're fighting one large army. It annoyed the higher rankers to no end*, especially when the prisoners escaped and brought the news back to their comrades.

Beech was looking out of his depth, and the ferret knew that confusion would probably escalate to hostility, so he decided to try to put the conversation back on its original path.

"So you were going to take us to someplace called Brockhall…" he prompted during a lull in Greenfang's lecture.

"Ah. Right. Right this way," said the relieved-looking squirrel.

The squirrel led the two vermin through several winding paths and false trails, which seemed rather unnecessary to Gregory, who had gotten lost as soon as their hut was out of sight. They eventually arrived at a huge old oak tree, and Beech walked up to a large door set in the base and knocked. A slot opened up at eye height.

"What's th' password?" asked an unseen beast.

"Swordfish," replied Beech promptly.

The pair of eyes disappeared and there was the sound of bolts being opened, but they were suddenly slammed back and the eyes reappeared.

"Are those _vermin_ with you?" asked the voice accusingly. Greenfang waved.

"Er, yes. They said that Mask talked to them…" said the squirrel.

"Belay this, Beech, I can't deal with you today…Mask was taken prisoner at Kotir for almost three days! I bet th' entire fort knows his name. An' now you've brought two vermin to our headquarters. Which is supposed to be secret!"

Gregory felt almost sorry for the squirrel. He was shaking badly, and looked terrified.

"Listen," said the ferret to the doorkeeper, "We aren't going to murder you all in your beds. Just let us in. We want to talk to your leaders."

"Oh, _that's _bloody reassuring. Th' vermin himself tells me that he's not gonna hurt me! Well, I'm safe now! Nothin' to worry 'bout!"

Greenfang sighed, "Oh fer th' love of…"

The weasel walked up to the door and gave it a hard kick from his right leg. There was a yelp from the other side as the old weasel put the leg down gingerly, wincing.

"Remind me not t'do that with my bad leg…" he muttered. Raising his voice, he addressed the door, "Listen, yeh thick dummkopf, if we were going t' kill any of yeh we'd of done it already. Open th' verdammt door or I'll knock it down!"

"I tink you broke by nose," came the moan from the other side, but presently the door was open and the two vermin and somewhat awestruck Beech were ushered in by an angry-looking otter holding his bleeding snout.

Brockhall's main hall was one of the most amazing things that Gregory had ever seen. The immense space, lit by a multitude of candles and lamps hung or set upon convenient roots, was twice the size of the big dining hall at Kotir and easily three times as elegant. Even back home the decoration was gaudy, forced, but in Brockhall nature had achieved what legions of decorators and large amounts of gold foil failed at. The roots of the great tree spiderwebbed through the ceiling, creating the somewhat unsettling effect of being inside of a giant cage.

Greenfang, however, was less interested with the scenery than with something else.

"They've got a badger…they've got a verdammt badger…" he muttered. And there was a badger, and old female one, holding a stack of dishes with one paw, but reaching for a formidable-looking poker with the other. _This is going to get really bad really fast, _thought Gregory. _Damn! I forgot about how he is with badgers._

"Oh, hello. Didn't think you'd show up." The ferret was relieved to hear a familiar voice that he had heretofore associated with a skinny brown stoat issue from the mouth of a still skinny but now grey-furred otter.

"Ah, hello Mask. I would greatly appreciate it if you would explain to your friends here that we aren't going to kill them. It might help things a bit."

"Oh, of course. I would have warned them earlier, but I wasn't sure that you were coming," the otter turned to the shocked faces of the table. "This is Greenfang and Gregory. I found them yesterday while I was doing my rounds of the settlement. We talked for a bit, and they convinced me that they were no longer soldiers of Kotir and didn't harbor any hostility against us. I mentioned that experienced beasts might have a place in the resistance, and left it at that."

_Well, that's interesting. Don't seem to remember telling him that we didn't harbor any hostility against them. I wonder if he took that for granted, or he's just a good liar. Either way, we're in trouble as soon as Greenfang says the wrong thing. Which will probably happen very soon, _thought the ferret as Mask explained. Presently, the badger replaced the poker and placed the dishes on the table. Gregory breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well," said the old badger, who seemed to be the leader. "This is most unexpected. However, we cannot immediately assume that beasts are hostile based on their species, especially if they have been vouched for by a respectful member of the Council."

Something about the way she said 'council' clicked in the ferret's mind. So, the famous Corim. All Thousand Eyes soldiers had heard the acronym, and after hearing from a prisoner about the Council of Resistance in Mossflower a few of the brighter fellows had Kotir had put two and two together. Gregory admired the thinking associated with it: you call an armed rebellion something associated with peace and justice and suddenly you're not violent rebels, you're freedom fighters.

"This case is somewhat different than that of Gingivere, obviously, and since these two apparently want to take an active military role in the resistance as opposed to simply escaping Kotir," continued the badger. "So it would be prudent to give them a period of probation first, followed by a vote from the Council based on their conduct and usefulness."

"So that's it?" asked an incredulous Gregory. "You're letting us in without even talking to us?"

The badger clasped her paws together and stared down at the two vermin, "Gentlebeasts, or at least I'm going to assume you are, I'm going to be honest with you: the resistance is in trouble. We've lost a lot of beasts of late, and Kotir has pushed us back almost to Brockhall itself. It's our last stronghold. If you are as good as Mask says you are, and I sincerely hope you are, you may be our last hope. We aren't soldiers, young ferret. Before Kotir we were farmers. We are peace-loving creatures, and this sort of thing is not in our experience. You are trained soldiers, you can teach us. And if you betray us…there are many beasts here with a less open-minded attitude than I."

The dark, cynical part of Greogry's brain that he tried to keep under wraps was sneering at the 'peace-loving creatures' line, but the rest of his mind was trying to wrap itself around this ultimatum and failing. The resistance's last hope? Them? _Then the woodlanders are completely screwed, _said the dark part of his brain, but he ignored it. At this point the ferret took refuge in something his father used to say: start with the small stuff and work your way up.

He walked over to the old badger, "Thank you ma'am for this wonderful opportunity. My companion and I will work as hard as we can to help you."

He held out his paw, and after a moment's hesitation the badger shook it. Well, that was one hurdle. As his father said, symbols are everything. Gregory cast a sidelong glance at Greenfang, who didn't seem to have taken the hint.

In fact, the old weasel understood perfectly what Gregory was getting at, and he didn't want to have any part of it. _To hölle with diplomacy, that's a verdammt badger!_ _Heißt das nicht, erinnere mich an nichts Idiot ich ihm sagen? I'll get him for this…_

Greenfang walked slowly over to the badger, and extended his left arm. This made the pawshake somewhat awkward for the badger, but Greenfang would not let his right arm near a badger for anything. It was shaking so much it might make a bad impression anyway.

The badger regarded him for slightly longer than was comfortable and then spoke, "Beech, take them to the one of the empty rooms and leave them for the night," she turned back to the vermin. "As for you two, you begin in the morning. Good luck."

The timid looking squirrel sidled up to the two mustelids, "Um, if you would just follow me, please…"

Greenfang walked after the squirrel, wondering exactly how the resistance had managed to keep Kotir at bay for so long if this was the best excuse for soldiery that they could come up with. And now, thanks to Gregory, it was his job to train them. Or something like that. Frankly, he was a bit fuzzy on the details.

Beech led the vermin to a room that was bigger than their old shack and closed the door after they walked in. Greenfang heard the faint scrape of bolts, and maybe the suggestion of a sigh of relief.

"Well," said the old weasel as he laid down on one of the room's two beds. "This is another wonderful mess yeh've got us into."

Gregory got into the other bed and also reclined, shivering slightly at a childhood memory, "What? I've got us a nice place to stay, a job, the protection of an army…"

"Yeah, until th' army actually notices we're there. Th' lot we 'ad t'night were th' leaders. Th' soldiers 'r gonna 'ave a completely diff'rent attitude, let me tell yeh."

"Oh, and you'd rather go back to Kotir and be executed, or maybe killed by one of your mates in a fight over a piece of bread?"

Greenfang rolled over, putting his back to the ferret, "I dunno…I still think it would've been better if I'd…oh, th' hölle with it. Let me sleep."

The old weasel blew out the single candle next to his bed and was silent, while Gregory lay in the dark staring at the ceiling. A secure building, the prospect of food, and a soft bed. That wasn't so bad, right? _Remember the last time you had those things, though? _said the dark part of his mind. He ignored it. That was behind him now.

_Oh well. Should probably get some sleep…lot of work to do tomorrow, whatever it may be…heh…_

*Including Gregory, mostly because he suspected in the pit of his heart that Greenfang was a better strategist than he was.


End file.
